


Wires Crossed

by calicovirus



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2015, Inspired by Real Events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicovirus/pseuds/calicovirus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley has a plan. Christmas is never going to be quite the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wires Crossed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miscellanny (Nny)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/gifts).



> A Good Omens Exchange gift for miscellanny :) Enjoy!
> 
> Original prompt: Aziraphale/Crowley, Christmas, spaceships, any rating

Crowley snapped the newspaper shut. No news in days. It was disappointing, really, to be working hard all summer and yet as soon as December rolled around, not a single newspaper could be bothered to cover any of his efforts. He'd been really trying, too. There was all that effort with the monkeys and the aluminium foil, and he'd managed to get half of Kentucky convinced that the US Air Force was covering up a secret of galactic importance.1 At any rate, it seemed time for Crowley to move on. Maybe he'd head out west again. He'd always had good results out west. Too much desert and nothing, and people were willing to believe _anything_.

A week later, Crowley was sitting in a dingy café in Colorado Springs. There wasn't much excitement to be had in Colorado Springs, really, but he had some vague idea that he could manage to get something out of the nearby military base. Not a weapon, or anything—that was hardly his concern—but the locals were very suspicious about it, which was always a good starting point. All he'd have to do was mention Project Blue Book a few times, float some pie plates through the air in front of either drunks or children, and he'd have a good few weeks' entertainment.

The café's one waitress emerged from the back, and walked over to Crowley.

"There's a call for a Mister Crowley on the store line," she told him, confusion plain on her face. "The man said to tell the man with the sunglasses?"

"Ah," said Crowley. "That'll be me, yes."

She squinted at him, and evidently decided that whatever this was about it was beyond her. "The phone's right this way."

Crowley followed her to a cramped little room piled with cardboard boxes which must serve as the manager's office. "That'll be all," he told her. She stared at him, unwilling to leave the accounts books with a stranger.

"Top secret," he added. "Military business."

She frowned, and flounced out. At least people from military towns were used to that sort of thing, Crowley thought, and picked up the phone.

"Hello Crowley," said Aziraphale. "Is this terribly inconvenient?"

Crowley looked around the little room with its butter-yellow wallpaper and piles of boxes. "Not for me."

"Ah," said the angel. "I thought I might call to see how you were getting on over there. How's your unidentical flying officers going?"

"It's Unidentified Flying Objects, angel," Crowley corrected petulantly. "And it's fine. More or less. I'm in Colorado now."

"I thought so, but I wasn't sure," Aziraphale commented. "Anything I ought to be thwarting?"

Crowley wracked his brain. "I don't think so. It's just small stuff, really, nothing that Up There or Down Below is going to really take notice of."

"Good." Aziraphale paused. "I was wondering—since Christmas is so close, and everything is really so _commercial_ these days, and there's hardly a thing to be done anymore, if you wouldn't—"

Crowley laughed. "You want commercial? You should _see_ what these Americans are up to. There's two weeks til Christmas yet, and they're just mad for it. Advertisements everywhere, parents going crazy, children screaming up a storm about it all—England's hardly got a patch on American Christmas."

"Oh my," said Aziraphale. "I'm sure England won't be like that."

"You keep believing that," chucked Crowley. "Keep believing it right up until Coca-Cola is knocking on your door trying to get Gabriel to sell for them."

"They wouldn't," Aziraphale said darkly. "Even _they_ should realize I'm hardly the person to go to for favours from _Gabriel._ "

Crowley laughed, unexpectedly. "That was…not where I was going with that, but okay. Shouldn't your people be more mad at them for the whole Santa Claus thing?"

The angel shrugged. Crowley wasn't sure how he heard it, but he did.

"It's still belief. And Saint Nicholas is benefitting enough, apparently, even with the date change for the gifts."2

"Hmm," said Crowley. "Does he get the letters?"

"I don’t know," replied Aziraphale. "It's not my department, really."

Crowley paused, tapping his finger against the receiver. "I think I have an idea…"

 

[1] Unbeknownst to Crowley at that time, he had also managed to convince a number of people that strange-looking men in dark suits with new-looking old-fashioned cars were wiping people's memories of UFOs and threatening amateur investigators, a phenomenon ufologist John Keel would later refer to as the Men in Black.

[2] Saint Nicholas was originally honoured on the 6th of December.

 

\-----

 

The offices of the _Colorado Springs Gazette-Telegraph_ were busy this time of year. Annie liked that. She liked being busy, even if it meant that her hands got dry and covered in paper-cuts from all the letters she had to open. Now, the man at her desk right now—she wasn't sure if she liked _him._ He had a suspicious air about him.

"I'd like to place an advertisement," he said in a funny accent, and handed over an envelope.

Annie reached over and took the envelope. Plain white paper, and inside was a pasted-together draft of a picture advertisement.

"Picture ads cost more," she said. "And it wouldn't be able to run for a few days."

"That's fine," said the stranger. "It only needs to be run on December 24th."

"Well, that's your choice," Annie told him. Privately she thought it was a little odd, especially since the ad was for Sears Roebuck and hadn't Dave been in the other day with all the Sears ads? But maybe he'd forgotten one, or the bosses had changed their mind at the last minute. And that phone number didn't look right, either…but if it was for an advertising scheme, then maybe they were paying for a special phone number. Maybe.

She rung up the cost of the advert, and the stranger pulled out a black leather checkbook. He did look strange, she thought. Dressed awful nice, even if those sunglasses were very out-of-place. And that accent… She shook her head. She was being too imaginative again. He was probably with the Air Force, she decided. There were always strange people here for the Air Force.

He passed her the check, and Annie handed him the little receipt paper.

"Merry Christmas, mister," she told him, but he had already turned around and left.

\-----

 

Crowley looked around his dingy little motel room. He'd tried for better, but Colorado Springs was apparently resistant to the idea that Crowley deserved nicer living quarters. His clothes and belongings, what little he had, were spread out on the bed as Crowley debated packing.

"I'm just saying, if this level of consumerism alarms you, you've got another thing coming," Crowley said, exasperated. "It's only going to get worse from here."

"I just feel like people have more sense than you give them credit for," Aziraphale sighed. "They can't possibly continue to enjoy this kind of thing. Won't they get _tired_?"

"Nope," said Crowley. "Not for a long while."

He picked up a shirt and threw it into his suitcase. "And anyway, I've come up with a great plan. A fantastic one."

"…dare I ask?" said the angel.

"I can't tell you the details, but I assure you, it's going to be a big one." Crowley frowned, and snapped his fingers at the rest of his wardrobe, which obediently folded itself into the case. "I'm just testing it for now, but if it works… Hoo boy. It'll be a _hit._ I might even get a commendation."

"It doesn't involve the Russians, does it?" Aziraphale replied, with a certain amount of slow dread.

"Not yet."

"That is hardly reassuring."

"Mm, I know," said Crowley absent-mindedly. He threw a pile of dreadful paperbacks into the case. They were the essentials: Norman Conquest novels, _Sin in Space_ , all kinds of things guaranteed to give the angel a good shock when he next saw Crowley’s bookshelves. "Anyway, I've decided I'm going to give this whole jet-liner thing a try, so I'll see you in a few days."

"You and your modern conveniences," grumbled Aziraphale. "Is it really any more _convenient_ if it takes you days rather than seconds?"

"It's the experience," Crowley protested. "It'll be a big thing in a few years, I've got to stay on top of things, so I don't become you."

Aziraphale muttered something Crowley didn't catch.

"I'll see you in a few days, angel," Crowley repeated. "Don't get your wings in a twist."

 

\-----

 

"Do you really have to keep playing about with that newfangled _thing_?" said Aziraphale, bringing the tea tray into the tiny little room behind the shop that passed for his parlour.

"Your radio's thirty years old, now, it's not exactly new anymore," Crowley retorted. If he turns the dial this way… "Now television, that's new. Exciting. They're putting the Queen on the television tomorrow, for the Royal Message."

Aziraphale harrumphed. "I thought the monarchy was supposed to be above that sort of thing."

"It's only the sound," Crowley conceded. "They haven't sorted out getting the cameras into Sandringham."

"It's the _principle_ of the thing," Aziraphale muttered, fussing with the mugs and the brandy. "What are you trying to find, anyway?"

Crowley twisted the dial like _that_ , and a buzz of static echoed through the little room, before _finally._ "—This is KOSI, Colorado Springs Radio, and tonight we bring you the latest news from across the state…"

"Excellent," Crowley said, and retreated to one of Aziraphale's wingbacks.

"I _said,_ what is that?" Aziraphale repeated. "Why are we listening to American radio?"

Crowley grabbed his tea-and-brandy and positively _cackled._ "Remember what I was saying about Americans being far more advanced on the Christmas front that the British?"

Aziraphale nodded.

"That great plan I mentioned—I'm testing it in Colorado Springs. It is going to absolutely _ruin_ Christmas for a whole load of people," Crowley announced. "And I hardly had to do a thing. That's _modern_ , that is."

The angel frowned. "Christmas at least ought to be about the personal touch. It's traditional. Hark-a-herald-angel-sing et cetera, et cetera."

"Not anymore," Crowley replied. "I mean that's what you were saying, is it's all commercial now. So why should _I_ be hand-delivering evil when I can mass-produce it? Plus it's going to get me way ahead on the nuclear front, that's always a bonus."

Aziraphale dropped his teaspoon. "Crowley, that's not sporting—you said—we had a _deal,_ " he hissed. "That's not supposed to have anything—"

"Oh no, not like that, not like that at all," Crowley assured him. "In fact it's going rather the opposite direction, so I think I might have to visit Moscow in January to compensate. The Americans will be rather a little busy with domestic concerns for a while, so it's only fair I make sure the Soviets are doing the same."

"Oh," said Aziraphale, giving the teaspoon up as a lost cause and materializing a new one. A Christmas miracle. "That's alright, then."

The radio crackled a bit, and Crowley leapt up and turned up the volume.

"We're getting a caller right now—let's put him on the line—Hello! Merry Christmas to you!" said the radio announcer. "What's your holiday wish you'd like to share with us?"

There was a sharp burst of static, and then a sombre male voice took over. "This is the Colonel Harry Shoulp, commander at the Continental Air Defense Centre," said the caller. Crowley snickered into his mug.

"What did you _do_?" Aziraphale asked, slightly horrified.

Crowley grinned. "Any minute now…"

"It appears we have an unidentified flying object," the caller said.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Aliens? _Again?_ "

"S'more than just aliens, this time," Crowley explained, putting his mug back on the table. "Loads of people, disappointed. It'll be great."

The radio announcer was making a series of shuffling, thumping noises, while the caller patiently waited. "Sir—that's—is there anything good Americans should be doing? Should we be preparing for—"

Crowley sat forward on the edge of his seat.

"—why, it looks like a sleigh!" said the caller.

"A sleigh?" the radio announcer said, incredulously.

"The unidentified flying object looks like a sleigh," repeated Colonel Shoulp. "It appears to be escorted by eight smaller craft."

" _No._ " Crowley stared at the radio. "This is _not_ according to plan!"

"We're awaiting identification, but we have pilots in the air and should be able to confirm our radar signals at any minute," said the Colonel. "We'll keep you appraised."

"Uh," stuttered the announcer. "Sure! That's—a sleigh! Well, I never. That's—thank you, sir. Thank you. I hope you'll keep us updated—a sleigh! With reindeer! Well. Merry Christmas to you, sir. And now, here's a great Christmas classic tune—"

Crowley leapt forward and wrenched the volume dial as low as it could go. "That wasn't—how did they—that was _top secret_ —a sleigh?!" He stood up and stalked around the room, grabbing a ginger biscuit and shoving it into his mouth. "I had _plans._ "

Aziraphale smiled. "It was very nice of you, you know."

"Not those plans!"

"All that time in Nevada paid off, I suppose?"

"It did _not!_ " Crowley hissed. "People were supposed to be disappointed! They were supposed to call and tell everyone to stop calling! And say that Santa wasn't real, and they were interfering with National Security, and all the little kiddies were supposed to be _devastated_!"

"They did call, at least," Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley glared at him.

"To say there was a _sleigh_ in the _radar_ and they were _trying to identify it_ ," Crowley howled. "Shit. Shit. _Shit._ That was _not in the plan._ "

Crowley threw himself back down into the armchair. "I cannot believe that just happened."

Aziraphale smiled slowly. "Humans are always capable of surprising us, my dear."

"I hate this."

The angel sighed, and poured more brandy into Crowley's mug.

"Here," he said, handing it to Crowley. "And have another biscuit."

Crowley stared at him. " _Ugh._ I can't even begin to—"

"Then don't," Aziraphale replied sensibly. "Happy Christmas."

Crowley groaned. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off the (probably) true story of how NORAD Tracks Santa began. The image used is the genuine ad placed in the Colorado Springs Gazette-Telegraph, although it was probably not actually placed by Crowley.


End file.
